


of fools and kings

by nap_princess



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Frozen-verse, Gen, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of self-harm, dead dove do not eat, mentions of Hans/Anna - Freeform, yeet!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22072678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nap_princess/pseuds/nap_princess
Summary: He could have had it all— Hans-centric, Frozen-verse
Relationships: Hans & Hans's Brothers (Disney), Hans & Lars (Disney)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	of fools and kings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Ugly Duckling](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/546577) by BookishDruid. 
  * Inspired by [make your shadows look like stars](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/546580) by screaming internally. 
  * Inspired by [Team](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/546583) by Lorde. 
  * Inspired by [A Frozen Heart (tropes)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/546586) by Elizabeth Rudnick. 



> Notes 1: I love all my sons equally — Caleb, Jurgen, Lars, Franz, Runo, Rudi ... (squints at smudge on hand) ... Habs.
> 
> Notes 2:  
> 

**of fools and kings**

* * *

* * *

When I see an empty throne, I feel the urge to sit on it

— **Napoleon Bonaparte**

* * *

**i**

* * *

The Southern Isles is not his home.

He thinks it can never be a home to anyone. Not with its lack in appeal, neither grand nor prosperous, not even very pretty to see. But it is cunning, it has its ways; large and looming, daring the bravest soul to step on its cursed soil. Like a siren luring sailors to their deaths.

The strong odour of salt and the howling wild winds do little to turn the desperate away. And he knows that they are — desperate, he means — because why else would they be here if not? They need to get rid of _him_. Quick _quick_ **quickly** now.

With the dark waters below them and the screaming seagulls above; the ship sails towards the isles, the French Dignitary and his men watch the large rock, shaped like a gaping mouth of a serpent. They shake and tremble, but it is _too late_ , they’re here.

 _He_ knows the name of the game. _He_ knows what’s coming. Despite being behind cell bars, he has the seat with the clearest view.

* * *

Hans does not bat an eye; even when he is reluctant to enter the palace, even when he is escorted in chains. He tells himself that he does not regret a single despicable thing that occurred in Arendelle; he fills his own head with lies to soothe his sorry soul. But, then;

Then, it takes one look — one _single_ look — across the throne room, and he thinks his world may just crumble.

.

.

.

His mother holds his gaze.

So does Lars. But they don’t approach him, _can’t_ approach him.

Not when the rest of his brothers are there. Not when his father’s face is red with fury; angrier at the loss of a trade partner than the sentence of criminal disloyalty on the thirteenth prince’s head.

His old man spits; there is a certain might behind his words as he abuses and picks at every little flaw.

Some of his brothers jeer at Hans’ failure. A smirk grows on Franz’s nasty princely face. Rudi tips his chin a degree up to showcase his grin more while Runo angles his head slightly downwards, eyeing Hans better.

But the public humiliation barely bruises him. Hans has learned to not take it personally; the swords that he keeps guard over his heart are sharp.

There isn't one single moment where he wants to hang his head. More than anything, he wants to return their gaze; look them _all_ in the eyes, make them see as he shouts, ‘Look at me! Look at what you've done to me!’

But why would they care? Why would they listen? Most of his brothers grew up ignoring him. All of his life he’s been the ground beneath their feet, a nuisance, invisible, because _that’s what brothers do_.

So to change _suddenly_ ; to show remorse and kindness and interest _now_ , would be unthinkable. Noticing his existence would only mean he's won.

.

.

.

(And Hans never wins)

* * *

The royal family leaves the throne room not long after, ready to banish the reality of Hans’ return to the isles like he had never left.

“You think so strongly of your plans, but you don’t know how to act,” Jurgen, second in line to the throne, says.

Speaking to Jurgen is always a rarity. There is this brief window of time when he chooses to talk to Hans, but even during those small glimpses, his words sting.

And now, as Jurgen passes by Hans in the long hallway, a smirk decorates his features. “You are _so weak_ , I wonder why I even call you my brother.”

His devious pale eyes linger on Hans’ freckled face, and for just a moment, Hans feels exposed. So _so_ **so** exposed.

The crown prince, Caleb, lets out a humourless laugh then gently shakes his blonde head, Hans winces inwardly. Caleb probably takes him as a fool, disapproving of Hans’ stupidity. And suddenly — _suddenly_ — there's this _swell_ in Hans’ chest; so _strong_ and _loud_ and _expanding_ that he thinks he _will_ explode.

But he doesn't; because that would be inappropriate; because that would give _the enemy_ more ammunition; because everything will go against what he's built up from the ground. So he swallows down the bitterness lingering in his mouth, and the silent tantrum is left as it is: unacknowledged.

* * *

**ii**

* * *

It's not like he was ever a threat.

He’s the runt of the family, in last place; a fact that even _he_ knows (and cannot change). And yet, his brothers still bully him. They treat him like he's a bother, and won’t leave Hans alone to his own devices.

Even when Hans is trying to do something idle like read a book; someone among the baker’s dozen will notice the peace and make it their duty to hunt him down; steal his paperback away from his hands, rip a page off and force it down his throat, chanting: _"Eat it! Eat it! EAT IT!"_

He still gets cold sweats when he's caught with a book, sometimes. With this fault in mind, Hans wonders how else is he supposed to gain some bloody knowledge? At this point, he’s never going to outsmart the rest.

So he looks around, looks for help from the smartest person he knows: Lars. Lars the historian. Lars the bibliophile. Lars, third prince of the Southern Isles.

Lars is kind enough to offer advice, leaving breadcrumbs for Hans to follow until he stumbles and realises the first step starts with a dream.

* * *

Hans has always had a bad habit of daydreaming.

His father had said it, his brothers too. _Everyone_ , and these people don't even pay much attention to him, so that alone speaks volumes.

 _“Go see Father, he’ll help you.”_ Lars had said from a memory when Hans was twenty and barely on his feet. _“He owes you that much,”_

Hans remembers raising an eyebrow. The King of the Southern Isles owes _nobody_ anything. But a small part of Hans wondered if what Lars said was true, if his father would extend a hand.

 _I’m his son._ Hans had thought. And it was a little strange that he had to remind himself of this fact when he stood outside the King’s study, fist raised to knock against the heavy wooden door.

 _“Father,”_ Hans had said, a slight quiver in his voice.

His father had not looked up from his work, his face buried behind stacks and stacks of paper that piled up high. Hans had the sense that his own blood was hiding behind a wall.

 _“I’ve come to ask you of something.”_ Hans continued.

 _“My boy,”_ The King finally replied, his tone like the rumbling of thunder and stone.

That single commanding voice tipped Hans into over-explaining, talking until he himself couldn’t stand to hear his voice, begging for a way to prove himself.

His rambles lasted for longer than Hans had wanted to. But what was done was done. And when it was over, the King had said: _“It’s good that you finally woke up.”_

Some part of Hans knew that there was a truth in those words; that he could no longer afford to believe in nonsense and fool’s gold and silly fairy tales. He _had_ to grow from it; turn himself into another charming face, another cold-hearted conman, another prince of the Southern Isles.

* * *

That same day, the King sends him off on an errand, ‘to speak to a villager over good politics’, Hans does as he’s told. The deed is done with the door of the villager’s home closed and beatings by the thirteenth prince’s two hands.

 _“Don’t_ ever _speak ill of your King ever again,”_ Hans warned in a steely voice that didn’t sound like his.

There is no guilt nor self-condemnation in his tone. Just a familiar sickening feeling of triumph after committing something nasty and inexcusable. _So bitter and venomous._ It rides on his shoulders and carries him out the gates until he stops in an alley and empties his stomach.

There is blood on his hands; staining his fine gloves and tailored jacket and the soles of his polished shoes. And as he violently shakes; he fights the conscience that tells him right from wrong.

He tells himself that what he did was a true act, that he’s being a good son and citizen, that he’s bold and true, and —

Stupid. _So stupid._ He's ruining no one's life but his own. His mind is not guiding him, and his non-existing heart is doing nothing but festering.

When Hans had approached the King, he did not think that it would lead to his adolescence not making sense.

* * *

**iii**

* * *

"Princess Anna?!" Lars roars.

Hans has never seen his favourite brother so angry, so furious. It makes his stomach churn and the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

_Don't hurt me. Don't hurt me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I —_

Panic attacks his mind. How can it not? He's grown up with useful fears.

"I cannot believe that you abandoned our three year plan for some chance with a spare!" Lars continues. "Queen Elsa was your ticket to _a kingdom_ , what were you thinking? Were you even thinking?”

But the shouts barely reach Hans’ ears, he is numb and his vision is swimming, he's trembling.

Just when he thought he could finally leave, just when he had decided to pack everything he owned; from his Winter cloaks to his horse, Sitron, he's back _here._ Back in hell, back in —

 _Get a grip._ He tells himself, trying to calm his nerves. _Get. a. grip!_

“Love,” Hans says, the word flies out of his mouth without a moment of hesitation.

“ _What?_ ”

“I thought love would save the day.” Hans starts explaining.

The idea had popped into his head when he was drenched in seawater. He remembers the exact moment it had happened; how his emerald eyes had landed on Anna’s face and how much of _an opportunity_ it would be for him. _A chance, a quicker way to sit on an empty throne_. There was a method somewhere in his madness.

“Oh, Hans,” Lars says, his expression wilting with pity.

“It worked!”

“Hans,”

“I swear it! I know it worked! I mean, _not for me_. But I heard the French Dignitary and his men talking about the cure to the Eternal Winter when they thought I wasn’t listening. Love thawed Princess Anna’s frozen heart. Love saved the day —”

“ _Hans_ ,” Lars repeats, cutting his brother off from his rambling.

“Don’t you believe me —?”

“Tell me this,” Lars says in a cold voice. It causes Hans to close his mouth shut. “Even if I did believe your story; what do you know about love?” Lars asks at last, and he may as well have slapped Hans across the face.

* * *

A knock sounds against his bedroom door.

Hans doesn't turn his head away from his window. He knows exactly who it is: his nanny's daughter. His nanny — bless that sweet, old woman — has retired and told her dearest daughter to keep an eye on the youngest prince. God knows nobody else will; none of the other staff are brave enough to approach Hans, that's for sure, and the Queen and Lars can only do so much under the King's watchful eyes.

"Come in."

The door swings open and an aroma follows. Strong, working hands occupy a tray that carries a meal — it is hot and simple, forbidden even. Hans was sent back to his room to starve as punishment, punishment for what exactly? He can’t be bothered to remember; it could have been the treason, the lesser coin filling the castle’s treasury, his mere existence.

His things from Arendelle are still packed and stacked around him, he uses them as a physical shield.

There is a heaviness in the air, they don't talk, he can’t bring himself to tell his side of the story.

Mutely, she cuts the bread and cheese for him before pocketing the knife used. He almost despises her for it until she gestures to the food and stands to his right, waiting. She is just as impatient with him as he is to her.

She won't leave until he eats. She'll watch him because she is familiar with his habits and knows what things he does to himself when he's frustrated. Either his nanny has told her, or she's seen those too ugly scars; formed from fingernails dragging against his freckled skin and blunt training swords and shard edges.

He glares at the food, then at her.

He hates her (for caring). And he himself. Hates himself _so much_. Hates the way he looks and the way he acts and the way he _was_ and _is_. He hates everything about himself — so, when she started getting close to him, started adopting his traits and preferences and habits, he sees a part of him in her and starts to hate her too.

 _What's the point?_ He thinks with gritted teeth, so enraged that he feels like breaking _something._

But, again, he doesn’t. He’s not going to be the fool this time, he’ll clench his fists behind his back and hold his tongue a little longer.

She stares back hollowly at him, dark circles prominent and eyebags growing. She supplies no answer and he doesn't know what the hell she's so occupied with that it gives her such an exhausted look. It certainly can’t be her worrying about his well-being.

 _So what_ if he’s been gone for an entire month? _So what_ if the rumours about the sudden cursed Eternal Winter spread? _So what_ if it was true that he was trapped in a place with harsh conditions? He had nothing to prepare himself for such damnations, but when is he ever prepared? He’s fine. _Just fine._

* * *

He sees his mother, her back facing him, and he doesn't know why, doesn't know what compels him to sound weak and small, but he calls out to her like he did when he was a child.

"Mama?"

There is a tiny gesture that travels up from her shoulders to her neck and head. And before she even turns around, Hans already knows what will happen.

"You’ll be alright, my love." The Queen says softly, reaching out a hand to his cheek.

Hans watches his mother's smile, green eyes crinkling and her blonde hair pinned away from her lovely face.

He stares at his mother and wonders why he couldn't have looked more like her, more like his brothers. Why did he have to be born with bright, red hair? Why did he have to stick out like a sore thumb? Why did he have to be the black sheep of the family?

* * *

“What’s wrong with my Hans?” His mother, the Queen, asks.

"There's nothing wrong with him, Your Majesty.” Hans hears his nanny’s daughter whisper between dark corners.

Hans stays still, lurking even in his home.

“His heart just needs help." She continues.

Hans almost scoffs at this. He thinks of how nobody needs a heart to begin with. It's useless. Sometimes it doesn't even beat right.

“No, there's something wrong with him.” The Queen whispers back. An emotion that sounded like fear teetered behind her voice. “Normal people don't go around destroying other human beings.”

He stays in the dark and squeezes his eyes shut. He feels like a small child again — helpless, wanting to do something but not knowing how or what to do.

What is there to do, when your own mother calls you a ‘monster’?

.

.

.

He avoids the mirror hanging against the wall at all costs; deflecting his gaze elsewhere, peering into the basin and soon his hands find their way, gripping onto the marble edges. He doesn't realise how hard his grip is until his palms hurt. He hears feet shuffling outside the door and whispers of impatience. His mind is running. He stares and stares and _stares_ into the basin's content until it feels like his world is spinning, then the water spills over the edge — just like him.

* * *

He should have learned from his first mistake of eavesdropping, he should have learned that it was best to be ignorant at times, but there he stands; rooted to the floor.

“I’m concerned about Hans.” The Queen says, her voice low like a whisper.

The King pauses, long enough to make Hans’ stomach twist. “Who?”

“Hans!”

“He’s …?”

“Our youngest!” The Queen shrieks from frustration. But her hysterics don’t do much, the hint dies where it lands. She gets no response, so she prompts, hoping for a reaction, “He’s thirteenth in line!”

The King’s face morphs into a dull look. “I don't recall having that many sons."

"And how many do you think we have? When did you stop counting?"

The King looks at his wife for the longest time. Then;

"I never started."

.

.

.

A hand jolts him from his eavesdropping, black hair and concern eyes fill his vision. The nanny’s daughter, how long has she been standing there?

"I'm sorry." Is all she offers.

"You're sorry?" He says back. He doesn't know how his voice didn't shake when he said it.

She's 'sorry'. _Sorry for him._

She nods back to his question and he doesn’t say anything else. Can he feel the silence? It feels like it's seeping into him, filling his hollow chest. He doesn't know if he can take it.

So he snaps.

He doesn't need anyone's fucking pity. He never needed it, never wanted it.

.

.

.

He comes storming into the throne room — a clash of demands mounting on his tongue. He wants respect and recognition, love and acceptance, and — and —

 _Everything_ and _anything_ , really. But all that comes out of his mouth is a statement, an angry statement.

"I'm your son!" Hans yells. He's lost his mind. He's truly lost his mind to be yelling at _the King._

The corner of his father’s lips twitches upwards. A smug smirk decorates his features better than any crown ever will. "My son's name is Caleb."

* * *

Oh, what a fool he is, competing for a love he won't receive.

* * *

**iv**

* * *

He starts holding onto grudges because it's better than not holding onto anything.

He did all this _for them_. He did it to stay afloat, to join his peers. He had lied to himself for them — told himself that he didn't mind stepping on other people's toes; that he is not afraid to declare to others that he hates them over the smallest, most insignificant disagreements.

But look at what he’s gotten himself into now. Why did he even try? There's no reason to scrape the bottom of the barrel, there's nothing there.

He lets out a loud laugh. Those who heard him must think he’s mad, giggling at thin air.

Before leaving the Southern Isles; a part of him was alive, dreaming of a throne and a crown and a realm.

Now the rest of him is just surviving. Now he is a sore jaw, frost on his uniform; now he is a bigger laughingstock than he originally was.

* * *

**v**

* * *

Time does not heal all wounds.

It's been three years. Three gruelling years. Not a day has gone by without his brothers reminding him of Arendelle and the royal sisters and his failure.

They've locked him in his chambers, too embarrassed to even look at him. Not that Hans can blame them, he can't look at himself either. Self-loathing seems to be the first feeling that hits him as soon as he opens his eyes. Even in his sleep, he fights with himself.

The twins burst into his room one day — unannounced, chaotic, reeking of bad news. The grins that crown their faces look ugly on them.

"Oh, little brother, haven't you heard of the news?" Rudi sing-songs, pulling Hans' gaze away from his book.

Hans immediately hides the paperback into one of his drawers, turning a key and locking it away like the rest of the things in his life.

"Clearly not." Hans snorts, trying to sound unamused, the harmony of waves crashing and seagulls squawking do little to calm his nerves.

"It's about the Queen of Arendelle!" Runo chimes in. His mocking smile could swallow anyone whole.

Hans glares and _glares_ and **glares**. Nothing they say will be jolly — he knows it, but he bites. "Did the Queen finally take a husband?"

"No, but Queen Anna is engaged!" Rudi exclaims.

Hans tells himself that this is all a bad dream. This can't be happening. This can't be!

And yet, he finds the words tumbling out of his dry mouth, "What did you say?"

"Are you deaf, _Hansel_?" Runo laughs, clearly enjoying the torture in Hans' emerald eyes.

"Queen Anna is engaged?" Hans repeats.

"Oh, is it finally sinking in?" Rudi jeers. "Queen Elsa stepped down! She abdicated the throne to her dearest sister, isn't that sweet? The cherry on top is that commoner proposing to her the same day! I would say I'm surprised Queen Anna would settle for someone lesser, but she did almost marry you, didn't she?"

His universe turns red. "Get out."

Runo cups a hand to his ear, "Did you say something?"

"Get out!" Hans thunders

He picks up the nearest delicate thing to him, the mirror on the wall, and flings it at the twins. It crashes to the ground loudly. Runo yelps and races out of the room first, too close for comfort.

Rudi is a little braver, yelling, "You're crazy!" as he runs out to the hall.

Hans slams the door shut, closing the world off from him. He swings his fists at the air, aiming at nothing and everything. He's hardly in control. His chest rises with anger. He feels the need to scream until he dies. But if he does, then that would send people running his way.

So he chokes on his own words, pushing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he sees white. And when he finally calms, he stares at the shards of mirror at his feet; his reflection jagged and broken.

_Anna._

No.

_Queen Anna of Arendelle._

He could have had it all.

* * *

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes 2: I apparently wrote a majority of this draft two days before I had my graduation in July 2019, I don't remember writing it, which just shows how memorable my graduation was. But, yeah, I forgot about this draft because my memory is as good as Anna's when she got hit on the head by Elsa's ice magic.
> 
> Notes 3: I read somewhere that Hans' mother and most of his brothers are blonde? I think it's in the book or like a wikisite? I know the fandom likes giving Hans’ whole fam red hair, but I like the idea of him being the black sheep in a physical way.
> 
> I also really like Hans' mother addressing him as ‘my love’ because strangers have done that to me. It's one of those nicknames I melt at. Like, I don't know you, but I'll be your love!
> 
> Anyway, I hoped you enjoy reading whatever this angst creation is.
> 
> — 2 January 2020


End file.
